


The Prince

by Piglet (Rethira)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 11:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12581264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rethira/pseuds/Piglet
Summary: His Highness the Crown Prince Diarmuid awoke to the sensation of a hot, heavy cock being pressed into his mouth.





	The Prince

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to noah for the beta!
> 
> detailed content warnings in the end note

His Highness the Crown Prince Diarmuid awoke to the sensation of a hot, heavy cock being pressed into his mouth. Instantly alarmed, he attempted to sit upright and force it from his mouth, but a surprisingly gentle hand pressed down on his shoulder and a deep voice said, “If you bite, it will go very hard for you.”

Diarmuid made an unimpressed noise, but kept his mouth slack and open. The cock eased further into him – his attacker at least seemed to care enough not to choke him. Indeed, the man took great care, thrusting only slightly, but even so, Diarmuid’s jaw began to ache and his mouth grew dry and eventually he was forced to swallow. The man groaned, and when he thrust next his cock pressed slightly further in. Diarmuid swallowed again, and the man repeated it, until his cock was pressing against the back of Diarmuid’s throat and he was forced to draw in breaths noisily and hastily.

The man spoke again, his voice harsh, “Will you swallow me down your throat, my Prince?”

He didn’t wait for an answer; his cock pressed firmly into Diarmuid’s mouth, and Diarmuid’s throat opened for him.

“Gods,” the man breathed, and his hand on Diarmuid’s shoulder tightened. When Diarmuid pushed at him this time, he moved back, but his cock soon returned – each thrust pushing it down Diarmuid’s throat, until the man groaned and shook, and thick liquid filled Diarmuid’s mouth until he choked on it.

When he was finished, the man sat back, resting on his knees. He brushed the hair from Diarmuid’s face and stared down at him, as if admiring the‒– the mess he’d made.

A smirk slowly appeared on his face, only just visible in the half-light of Diarmuid’s room. “I’d almost think you’d sucked cock before, my Prince,” he said.

Diarmuid sneered. “Who sent you?”

The man continued to smirk. “I sent myself, my Prince, and I came myself.”

Common, low born peasant. Diarmuid made to sit upright; the least he could do was make himself somewhat more presentable. There was no question of calling the guards. They could not be allowed to see him with‒– with this man’s _leavings_ on his lips.

The man clucked his tongue and pushed Diarmuid down again. “Ah, I see my Prince is getting ahead of himself.”

“Are we not finished?” Diarmuid snapped. “You have debauched and insulted me; you have had your way with me. There is nothing more to be done.” Save the man’s execution, but that could wait.

The man simply chuckled and moved so he sat beside Diarmuid instead of straddling him. “If I am to have my way with you, then I should be sure to be thorough about it. I daresay my Prince has not been had at all.”

Diarmuid felt his cheeks colour and thanked the darkness. He could not see his attackers face clearly, but equally he imagined that his face could not be seen.

At his silence, the man said, “I see I am correct. Well, my Prince, shall we see what we can do?”

His hands were gentle as he divested Diarmuid of his clothes; the thin nightshirt was pulled over Diarmuid’s head, and the undergarments were summarily discarded, and it was then that Diarmuid was forced to admit it.

He was shamefully, terribly erect.

The man didn’t have the courtesy to be surprised. He sighed happily, and his large, calloused hand wrapped carefully around Diarmuid’s hardness. He stroked Diarmuid with the surety of one who has frequently performed such a task, and soon Diarmuid found himself biting back cries and covering his mouth.

He could still taste the man on his lips, and it only made him harder.

The man’s thumb pressed against the head of Diarmuid’s cock, and the sudden force made Diarmuid’s hips buck; he cried out part in shame, and part in growing pleasure. The man leant over, and kissed Diarmuid’s throat.

“Shh, my pretty Prince. Swallowing my cock down this throat of yours got you in such a state, didn’t it?” His tone was kind, his words filth, and Diarmuid could feel tears pricking at his eyes. It felt so good. A strange man come upon him in the night, used him as if he were a common _whore_... and it felt so _good_.

The man shushed him again, and his hand slowed unbearably, until Diarmuid was pushing himself up into that hand desperately, noises he could never have imagined coming from his throat, and then the man had the temerity to _let go_ entirely.

“Don’t,” Diarmuid found himself saying, “don’t.”

“Shh,” the man repeated, and then he lifted Diarmuid’s hips from the bed and slung Diarmuid’s legs over his shoulders. “You’ll like this next bit, pretty Prince.”

The man’s tongue swept‒– Diarmuid could hardly think it. It swept across his hardness once, and the feel of it was almost more than he could take. But only once, and then the man licked lower, and his hands hefted Diarmuid higher until he was resting entirely on his shoulders, and _then_ the man licked across Diarmuid’s‒–

The noise that escaped him must surely have been heard by half the castle.

The man chuckled, and repeated the action. His tongue licked and lapped, and it was wet and hot and _filthy_ , yet the man didn’t seem to care. His fingers dug into Diarmuid’s arse and he pulled Diarmuid’s cheeks as far apart as they would go and he _buried_ his face in there, and the only noises Diarmuid could seem to hear were the obscene slurping ones from between his legs.

And he had thought himself debauched before.

The man rose eventually, licking his lips and rubbing his stubble-rough cheek against Diarmuid’s thigh. He pressed a kiss to the tip of Diarmuid’s hardness; not enough to do more than make Diarmuid’s voice catch in his throat, and then settled Diarmuid back upon the bed.

“Well, well, I think my Prince _likes_ being had,” he commented.

It was all Diarmuid could do to throw the haughtiest look he could manage and reply, a tad shakily, “If you do not put your face between my legs again I shall have you executed.”

The man laughed again. “As you wish, my Prince,” he replied, and then he ducked his head and wrapped his mouth around Diarmuid’s cock and sucked like he was made for it. Diarmuid cried out and his hips bucked up, once, twice, and then he was emptying into the man’s mouth.

The man sat up, licking his lips, and he spread Diarmuid’s legs as wide as he could, and pressed his cock, now hard again, between Diarmuid’s legs. He pressed forward, and his cockhead breached Diarmuid as easily as his tongue had. The man groaned and Diarmuid shook, and the man thrust softly like that, just the very head of his cock piercing Diarmuid.

“I could come here, like this, my Prince,” he said, “and then use it to slick you open. Would you like that, pretty Prince?”

Diarmuid whined, and his cock twitched on his belly, and the man laughed again.

“Perhaps next time,” he murmured, withdrawing. He did not duck his head, but his fingers pressed insistently into Diarmuid, dry as they were. Two all at once, the way eased only by the man’s earlier ministrations.

“I can’t,” Diarmuid whispered, his voice barely above a croak.

The man’s fingers spread as he asked, “Do you keep slick here then, pretty Prince? Do you spread yourself open on those fingers of yours?”

Diarmuid shook his head, keening softly when the man pressed a third finger into him.

“Look at you now,” the man whispered, “my pretty Prince, arse spread open. Split upon my fingers. And you want nothing more than my cock to slide up there next, don’t you?”

Diarmuid’s only reply was a wordless noise; the man panted harshly and leant over him again, kissing at his neck and jaw while his fingers pressed and pushed and spread, opening Diarmuid for what was to come. The man’s cock dragged wetly at Diarmuid’s thigh. Diarmuid’s cock was already rising to hardness again.

The fingers left him abruptly. The man sat back on his haunches, and then he tugged at Diarmuid’s arm and turned him over. A hand pressed Diarmuid’s face into his pillow, and his knees were pushed under him, until his arse was held high in the air. The man sighed; he leant over Diarmuid’s back, one hand resting on the pillow beside Diarmuid’s head, the other holding Diarmuid’s hip in a grip that was sure to bruise.

The head of his cock entered Diarmuid again, easily at first. But soon it pressed in further than before, and then further even than the man’s fingers had gone. The man pushed himself in deeper, implacable, until his cock rested in the deepest part of Diarmuid and his balls touched against Diarmuid’s arse.

“There,” the man said, breathlessly. “Now you have been had, my Prince.”

Diarmuid croaked a reply, or tried to. The man pulled out, and pushed back in again, and Diarmuid’s admonition died in his throat. His cock swung between his legs, mirroring the motion of the man’s thrusts, and Diarmuid could not even spare a hand to stroke himself.

Above him the man groaned, his thrusts speeding, until he was slamming into Diarmuid. The stretch and burn of his cock entering and leaving him the only thing Diarmuid could focus on. He could not even describe how it felt‒– so full one moment, and yet so empty the next. And all at the hands of some‒–

The man reached under Diarmuid, his grip so suddenly tight around Diarmuid’s hardness that Diarmuid could not stop himself from spilling immediately, his cry muffled in his pillow.

The man cursed, and his cock stuttered, and then a warmth filled Diarmuid. He shuddered to feel it. To know what it was. The man pulled his cock free and immediately pressed his mouth there instead. His tongue speared inside Diarmuid, and Diarmuid reared upwards, a shriek leaving his mouth. The man didn’t stop; his tongue moved like a mockery of his cock, wet and slick, in and out over and over, and Diarmuid screamed his pleasure for the castle to hear.

When at last the man finished, Diarmuid fell boneless to his bed, uncaring of the damp spots, uncaring that he had been used and taken in his own bed. Uncaring of anything but the lethargy in his limbs.

The man stroked his back, gently. “Off to sleep with you now, little Prince,” he murmured.

“I am the _Crown_ Prince,” Diarmuid mumbled, as his eyes fell shut.

 

There was a cock in his mouth. Again.

“Just swallow, my Prince.”

And Diarmuid did. Lying on his back, the man above him – it had been a fortnight, and Diarmuid’s debauchment had gone unnoticed – and his cock sliding down Diarmuid’s throat. His undergarments lost once again, his hardness twitching into life.

“Your throat, my Prince,” the man gasped, “your lovely, lovely throat,” and he fucked Diarmuid’s throat until he came down it.

The night progressed faster this time. The man had brought slick, and pressed his cock inside before he was even half-hard again. Perhaps it was easier on Diarmuid, or perhaps he simply wished for Diarmuid to feel his cock hardening inside him. He fucked harder this time, dragging Diarmuid’s hips up to meet his thrusts, savage like an animal, and then he ate his come out of Diarmuid once again.

“I do hope this is not becoming a habit,” Diarmuid groaned.

“I shouldn’t fear of that, my Prince,” the man assured, but Diarmuid felt it was a poor assurance, especially come the next morning when he discovered that the man had got himself off upon Diarmuid again while Diarmuid slept.

 

Diarmuid’s throat was wrecked. Sore. Still he croaked, “More,” as the man held Diarmuid upright against his chest, fisting his cock until Diarmuid came, his come striping across bedsheets. The man let Diarmuid drop to his hands and knees, pulled his cock out and came across Diarmuid’s arse. His mouth was there again in seconds, licking it up until Diarmuid was shaking.

“Do it again,” Diarmuid pleaded. “Please.”

The man did not disappoint.

 

The sun was rising. Diarmuid was stretched out on his back, his cock red and weeping on his stomach, and his legs spread wide. The man slowly jacked himself over Diarmuid’s stomach. Soon, Diarmuid did not doubt, he would come across Diarmuid’s entrance. It would not be the first time. It would not even be the first time that night. Diarmuid had lost track of how many times this man had had him. Had mounted him. Had rutted against him, had brought him off. Had taken him, like Diarmuid was simply _his_.

“Use your fingers,” the man said. Diarmuid reached down and pressed his fingers inside himself. It hurt a little. A good kind of pain. His body clenched around his fingers. They weren’t thick enough. Nothing was thick enough. Only the man’s cock would do. It was enough to drive him to madness.

The man groaned, guttural and harsh, and spilled himself messily across Diarmuid’s fingers and arse.

The sun hit the windows, and the light was suddenly sharp enough for Diarmuid to discover two things:

First, the man was surprisingly handsome for someone who felt it necessary to secretly put himself upon a sleeping prince.

Secondly, the man was not a man at all.

Diarmuid’s voice cracked as he said, “You are a _tlmeni_.”

The man‒– the _tlmeni_ quirked an eyebrow. “Only half of one, my Prince.”

“A _halfblood_ ,” Diarmuid spat, sitting up. “Do you seek my favour? Did you think that‒– that _this_ would bring me to‒–”

The _tlmeni_ laughed. “I expect no such thing, my Prince. If anything, I should not be so surprised if you were to curse us all now.” His laugh turned bitter. “No, my Prince, I expected nothing at all, save perhaps to be beheaded.”

“You are a fool then,” Diarmuid snapped. “You have forced yourself upon a prince, and all you expected in return was death.” He made an unkind noise. “I have been had by a halfblood _tlmeni fool_.”

The _tlmeni_ replied, lightly, “If I am to be beheaded, I would have you again.” He did not wait for a reply, simply turned Diarmuid onto his front and entered him again. He pressed his mouth against Diarmuid’s ear and said, “You have not protested, my Prince. Even now.”

Diarmuid remained silent.

 

Executions happened regularly. _Tlmeni_ were often dissident, and halfbloods even more so. Most were not given dignified executions. They were thieves or bandits, or those who plotted to overthrow the throne. Men did not allow _tlmeni_ to touch them; the green skinned, slit eyed creatures were unclean. If a halfblood child was born, it should be killed at birth.

Diarmuid watched the executions detachedly, and that night he tried to pleasure himself without recalling the _tlmeni_ touching him, fucking him, having him.

He did not succeed.

 

It was a month before the _tlmeni_ returned. He woke Diarmuid as was his custom: by pushing his cock down Diarmuid’s throat.

“My Prince is not so welcoming tonight,” the _tlmeni_ commented. Any reply Diarmuid would have made was muffled, and in any case, he was distressed to find that he enjoyed the taste and feel of the _tlmeni_ ’s cock in his mouth more than he remembered.

The _tlmeni_ sighed, pulling his cock free from Diarmuid’s mouth and rising from the bed. He turned away, and so missed Diarmuid licking his lips.

“Does my Prince find my presence intolerable?” he asked.

“Why should I welcome you?” Diarmuid snapped. “You act the thief and burglar, appearing here only to get yourself upon me.”

The _tlmeni_ smirked, just slightly. “Ah, but my Prince enjoys my attentions.”

Diarmuid coloured again, and repeated, “Why should I welcome you? I do not even know your name, though I have tasted your cock and felt it inside me.”

“Forgive me,” the _tlmeni_ murmured, “I had not thought my Prince would wish to hear my name. My mother named me Bréanainn, but I am more commonly called Bran.”

Diarmuid’s lip curled. “She named you _that_?”

Bréanainn chuckled. “She said I should be a prince, but I seem to have found one instead.”

Diarmuid sniffed. “I shall call you it.” He paused. “And, if you wish, you may get yourself upon me; down my throat, in my arse. I shall not protest.”

Bréanainn walked over, and pushed Diarmuid down. “Of course, I shall endeavour to please my Prince,” he promised.

 

A year passed in this way. Bréanainn visited only occasionally, but was rarely away long enough for Diarmuid to miss him. The executions continued. Diarmuid’s father remained in good health. His sisters began to choose who they might wish for husbands, under his mother’s guidance.

And Diarmuid debased and debauched himself as often as he could, allowing Bréanainn liberties no-one else would ever have. He woke to a cock in his mouth or a tongue in his arse – once, he woke to both, and Bréanainn fucked him after, well into the early hours of the morning, until they were almost found by the maidservants.

If anyone suspected that Diarmuid whored himself as he did, they said nothing.

And then one day the King turned to his son and said, “My dearest Diarmuid, there is something you must know.”

“What is it Father?” Diarmuid replied.

And the King said, gravely, “You have a brother.”

 

Once, Diarmuid’s father said, he was a young man. And, as all young men are, he was wild and a touch cruel. This is especially true of Princes, as he was back then, the King continued. And one day, he came across a _tlmeni_ woman.

A child was born a year later; _tlmeni_ pregnancies last longer than human’s. And the King had, by then, grown up some – he would not deny the child was his, but it could also not be _known_.

So the child and its mother were sent far away. The child was called _Prince_ , for his mother wished it, and the King had, in his shame, allowed it.

“Bréanainn,” Diarmuid said. “His name is Bréanainn.”

“Yes,” the King replied, showing only slight surprise. “But I have been told he is more commonly called Bran.”

 

The knowledge sat heavily. He should have been disgusted. Diarmuid knew all this. And yet, when Bréanainn next returned, Diarmuid found himself eager‒– eager for his _brother’s_ cock in his mouth, in his arse. Eager to moan as his brother took him and claimed him. So eager he was desperate for it.

“We are brothers,” Diarmuid said, afterwards.

“Yes,” Bréanainn replied, and it did not surprise Diarmuid at all that he had known.

“And yet you‒–”

“I am _tlmeni_ ,” Bréanainn interrupted. “Blood calls to blood. And you are beautiful.”

Bréanainn rolled over, and pressed his face between Diarmuid’s legs. The discussion was ended.

 

His Highness the King Diarmuid awoke to the sensation of a hot, heavy cock being pressed into his mouth. He smiled faintly, and swallowed to welcome his brother home.

**Author's Note:**

> cw: non-con, dub-con, incest
> 
> specifically regarding the incest - one party is aware of their relation to each other from the beginning, the other only finds out much later
> 
> tlmeni are humanoid with pale greenish skin and catlike eyes


End file.
